THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING.
“I did not expect to see you here to-night, Mr Mansfield.”
“I had no idea of coming, madame, but his Excellency insisted upon it.
M. Paschics is here too.”
“Do you know whether Prince Ramon of Arragon has visited Count
Mortimer yet?”
“Yes, madame, this afternoon.”
“You don’t happen to have heard what he thought of his health?”
“No, madame, I did not like to ask; but his Excellency seemed quite
cheerful this evening. When I left the house, he was busy with his
servant, looking over his things, I think.”
“I am glad he was in good spirits, but I should like to know exactly.
Might I trouble you to ask Prince Ramon to come and speak to me?”
“I am honoured, madame.”
In order to welcome the illustrious visitors to Damascus, the
Pannonian, Hercynian, and Thracian consuls had joined forces,
determining to provide an entertainment that should throw into the
shade everything of the kind that had been hitherto attempted in the
city. Strings of bright-coloured lamps, rich draperies, and a
profusion of greenery, had transformed the inner courtyard of the
Pannonian Consulate, which was covered in for the occasion, into a
fairy palace, and the display of dazzling uniforms, Parisian gowns,
and gay national costumes, was not unworthy of its frame. Cyril was
the only person of note at present in Damascus who was not to be seen,
and although the Queen had begged him not to come, she felt vaguely
uneasy at his absence. She welcomed Don Ramon with an anxious smile as
he approached her, not in the best of tempers. Mansfield had disturbed
him in the midst of a deeply interesting conversation. It was the
Prince’s habit to carry his scientific researches even into his hours
of ease, and the sight of a magnificent-looking old Syrian with a
venerable white beard had proved an irresistible temptation. A request
to be allowed to call upon him and take some measurements of his head
had terrified the old man, and it was with the utmost relief that he
took advantage of Mansfield’s approach to break away from this
alarming stranger, quite regardless of his feelings in the matter.
Moreover, like most of the Queen’s relations, Don Ramon had decided to
ignore her intended marriage altogether. Ernestine might disgrace
herself by an alliance with a mere noble if she liked, but her family
were unaware of the existence of any such presumptuous person as her
future husband. The Prince had visited Cyril at her request that
afternoon, not as her _fiancé_, but as a former valued servant of the
Thracian crown. His outraged family feelings combined at this moment
with his scientific preoccupation to make his manner more than usually
brusque.
“You have seen Count Mortimer, cousin?” the Queen asked him timidly.
“I hope your opinion is favourable?”
“Favourable, my dear cousin? The man’s case is hopeless!”
“Hopeless!” she grasped at a pillar to support herself. “But what is
the matter with him?”
“If I describe the injury in technical language you would be no wiser
than before. The brain has ceased to perform one of its functions.”
“You mean that he will be--_mad_?”
“No, no; how you ladies rush at conclusions! There is no trace of
mania whatever. The man is as sane as I am. He has simply lost the
power of connected thought, of planning--plotting, if you like.”
“But how can this be? What has happened to him?”
“Over-strain after long and continued fatigue has done the mischief,
by what he says.”
“But it is only temporary? Rest will cure him?”
“My dear cousin, this is not like the loss of sight or memory which
has taken place as the result of a shock, and may be restored by
another shock. The power is gone. He says that he felt as though
something snapped in his brain, and that will serve very well as a
popular description of what has occurred. The connecting-cord is
broken, and he is incapable of carrying on a train of thought.”
“Oh, what will he do? what will he do?” moaned the Queen.
“Pray do not distress yourself, cousin. Many very worthy persons are
born without the faculty of connected thought, and live happy lives,
unconscious of the defect.”
If they were born without it, perhaps. But Cyril, who had possessed
and lost it?
“You told him, cousin?”
“Naturally. He is not a child. He received the news with the utmost
coolness, and conversed cheerfully as he escorted me to the door. But,
my dear cousin, you are ill--about to faint. Allow me to call my wife,
or one of your ladies.”
“No! no!” Ernestine seized his arm and held him back. “Take me to the
cloakroom, that is all, and fetch Lord or Lady Caerleon. I want no one
else. Don’t let people make a scene.”
She sank upon the couch to which he led her, and sat there with
clenched hands and staring eyes until he returned with Philippa, the
only member of the family whom he could find disengaged at the moment.
Receiving another fervent entreaty to say nothing of Ernestine’s
indisposition, he withdrew, and she turned frantically to Philippa.
“Will you come with me to your uncle, at once? He has had bad news,
there is something wrong with his brain, and he has been told it too
suddenly. His friends are away, and the shock----” Her voice failed
her, but Philippa read in the piteous eyes the unspoken fear which had
seized herself as she listened, and she grasped the two trembling
hands in her own.
“Oh yes, yes; let us come this moment. Usk or Mr Mansfield will help
us.”
But Usk was the centre of a group of laughing Greek girls, who were
teaching him to pronounce their language properly, and Mansfield,
having failed to get a word with Philippa all evening, had wandered
away disconsolately with Mr Judson. Even Mr Hicks, engrossed in
subjecting a Latin bishop to an informal interview, was so busy that
Philippa could not catch his eye.
“There is only that elderly officer who belongs to your suite, madame,
that I can see,” she said, hurrying back to the Queen.
“Banics? Oh, fetch him--he can be trusted.”
Philippa obeyed, and Ernestine addressed the astonished General with
feverish eagerness. “Find us a carriage, Banics. I must go at once to
Count Mortimer’s lodgings--at once, at once.”
“At this hour, madame? Allow me to request his Excellency to wait upon
you instead,” was the sole protest General Banics permitted himself,
but his mistress waved it aside wildly.
“You will kill me with all this delay! Find a carriage quickly. I tell
you we must go at once.”
He hurried out, and Philippa wrapped the Queen in a dark cloak,
drawing the hood over her head. They stood waiting breathlessly until
General Banics reappeared, having taken forcible possession of the
first carriage he came across. It belonged to a private individual,
but a _bakhshish_ to the servants, added to the awe-inspiring effect
of the General’s uniform and his manner, enabled him to hire it for a
short time, and he helped the ladies in and took his seat upon the box
in disapproving silence. A short drive, during which the Queen and
Philippa held each other’s hands in an agony of fear, brought them to
the Hebrew quarter. To Philippa’s intense relief, although she could
hardly have told why she felt relieved, the door of Cyril’s Jewish
host stood open, and the porter was lounging on the threshold talking
to a friend, so that the commotion usually needed before entrance
could be obtained was not called for. Earlier in the day, Philippa and
her parents had partaken of coffee with the family, in a scene that
might have come straight from the pages of ‘Tancred,’ but now every
one was away at the consuls’ entertainment, with the exception of the
aged grandfather, who was roused from his slumbers by the servants,
and came forth blinking and bewildered. Fortunately he recognised
Philippa, but precious time passed while he lamented the unfitness of
his poor house to receive the exalted young lady, wringing his hands
the while. She cut him short at last in desperation.
“I must see my uncle at once, please. It is most important that this
lady should speak to him. No, no; you are not to say that we are
here!”
Fairly dashing past the servants, who were already starting off to
announce her presence, she dragged the Queen in the direction of the
staircase which led to Cyril’s rooms on the upper floor, leaving the
old man still wringing his hands and murmuring feebly something about
coffee. No one guessed who the elder woman was who followed Philippa
so closely as she crossed the courtyard, although General Banics
thought it well to station himself at the foot of the staircase, in
case curiosity should be roused as to her identity. Entering the
passage from which the rooms opened, the two ladies were confronted by
the valet Dietrich, who appeared to have been placidly smoking a huge
pipe in the dark.
“Where is Count Mortimer, Dietrich? I want to speak to him.” Philippa
lowered her voice involuntarily.
“At work, gracious one. He must not be disturbed.”
“You know he never meant you were to keep me out. Let me pass,
please.”
“Alas, gracious one! I have his Excellency’s orders to admit no one.”
“Dietrich!” Ernestine threw back her hood, and the flash of her
diamonds dazzled the valet’s astonished eyes; “you must let me
through. It is a matter of life and death for your master.”
“Pardon, Majesty, I dare not. I have my orders.”
Ernestine clasped her hands wildly. Philippa drew her aside.
“Slip round by the verandah while I distract Dietrich’s attention
here,” she whispered hurriedly, and pushing past the servant, almost
succeeded in gaining the door. While he sprang forward to stop her,
the Queen slipped away and ran round to the window. It was open. Cyril
was standing with his back to her, looking narrowly into something
which he was holding up close to his eye.
“Cyril!” she shrieked, bursting into the room. He started violently,
but as he turned to her he thrust what he was holding under a piece of
paper lying on the table.
“Ernestine! how you startled me! You here--at this hour? What is the
matter?”
“Give it to me! give it to me!” she cried, rushing to the table. As
she had expected, a pistol lay under the paper. Cyril’s hand came upon
hers with a firm grasp as she snatched it up.
“No, no, you shall not! Before my eyes, Cyril!” she screamed, trying
to wrest the weapon from him. How it happened she could not tell, but
as she struggled with him there was a sudden explosion, and a bullet
whizzed close to her head, singeing her hair in its passage. Dazed and
deafened, she loosed her hold of the pistol.
“There!” she cried, laughing hysterically. “Better me than yourself!”
Cyril, with an ashy face, picked up the pistol, which had fallen to
the ground. The door opened impetuously, and Philippa’s horrified face
looked in. Seeing that neither was hurt, she closed the door again,
and meeting General Banics at the top of the stairs, assured him, in a
voice which she vainly tried to render steady, that there was nothing
wrong, A pistol had gone off by accident, that was all.
“Are you hurt, Ernestine? How came you here?”
“I wish I was hurt! I wish I had been killed!” she cried frantically,
“for then you might have been sorry. Cyril, Cyril, I thought you loved
me, and you don’t.”
“You are talking wildly, my dearest.”
“You don’t, and there is the proof of it.” She pointed to the
discharged pistol. “It is cruel of you. What have I done that you
should kill yourself to be rid of me?”
“Be reasonable, Ernestine. This is an old pistol that I came across in
turning out my things. Am I to blame if it should happen to be loaded?
Accidents with fire-arms are not, absolutely unheard-of events.”
“Oh, that was what the world was to believe, was it?” She swept him a
superb curtsey. “Many thanks! But it is unnecessary to try to deceive
me. I have spoken to Ramon, I know all. Cyril, my beloved,” her voice
took a tone of the most poignant reproach, “have I deserved this? Am I
such a fair-weather friend that you can’t trust me to cling to you in
trouble as well as in prosperity?”
“My dear Ernestine, it is because I know you would cling to me that I
decline to drag you down with my wretched self. I thought I should
have a kingdom to offer you; I find I shan’t have even an
independence. Therefore----” he pointed to the pistol.
“But you know that I only cared for the kingdom for your sake. Oh,
Cyril, it is you I love, you I want. Your life is mine; you
cannot--dare not--rob me of it. Think of the many years you made me
suffer in loneliness. You owe me all those.”
He was silent, and she crept closer to him.
“Beloved, you don’t regret that I came in? that you have been held
back from taking your life like a coward? I would never have believed
any one who told me that you were afraid to face any future. You will
be greater in adversity than in success. God is sending you this trial
that your true strength may be shown.” Cyril shifted his position
impatiently. “You would not, in a moment of despair, refuse the trial,
fail under the test, and destroy your soul for ever?”
“Really, Ernestine, this kind of argument has no weight with me.”
“Then perhaps this will weigh with you.” Stung by his tone, she tore
the diamond cross from her neck and held it towards him. “Whatever you
do not believe, you know that God and Heaven and eternal judgment are
realities to me. Understand, then, that if you take your own life,
either to-night or afterwards, I swear that I will do the same,
solemnly believing that my soul will be lost for ever in consequence
of the deed. Oh, what am I saying?” She paused and trembled, but as he
tried to wrest the cross from her, her fingers tightened upon it more
firmly. “Yes, I will do it, without hesitation. God forgive me--no, I
dare not ask Him to forgive me--God forgive you, if you drive me to
it.”
Cyril dropped into a chair, and buried his face in his hands. She
stood beside him, awaiting his decision with perfect calmness.
“If you die, I die,” she said again. At last he looked up.
“I give in, Ernestine. But I think you will often repent this
evening’s work.”
“Never, even if you do.”
“I? I shall repent it every day--every hour--of my existence.” It was
the bitter cry of the man who sees every interest and every pleasure
in life snatched from him in a moment. “I am a useless, brainless log,
and you force me to live.”
“Dearest, there is still so much that you can do.” The woman’s
unselfishness led her to try to comfort him in his own way, instead of
resenting the little value he set upon her love. “You never even
discovered your loss until a very momentous crisis arose. If Philippa
marries Michael, you can return to Thracia, and become Premier again.”
“Are you trying to tempt me to sacrifice poor Phil? Don’t you see that
I could never go back to office as a humdrum, routine, red-tape
Minister, incapable of effecting combinations or making bold strokes?
I could not face a horrible monotony of that sort.”
“Then we will settle down in England, near----”
“And add another specimen to the British collection of political
failures from the Continent? Hear myself continually pointed out as an
awful warning of the dangers of leaving the beaten track? Never!”
“Well, then, we will go back to Sitt Zeynab. You shall reign there in
peace, and no one can come near you against your will. Wherever you
are, there I shall be happy.”
“My poor Ernestine, I am not worth it. You had better let me die,
dear.” His eyes sought the pistol longingly. “I am a miserable, broken
wretch, with no hope and no contentment left, and I shall lead you a
terrible life.”
“No life with you could be terrible to me. To be near you is joy
enough. It was not your success I loved, it was you, and you are the
same still. I love you, Cyril, I love you.”
The passion of the tone, the eyes shining into his, the trembling
hands laid upon his shoulders, stirred Cyril with a stronger emotion
than he had ever known, and words came to his lips,--echoes, perhaps,
of others heard long before in his childhood--he knew not how or
whence.
“God do so to me and more also, Ernestine, if I ever forget what you
have done for me to-night. Dearest, you understand. Some women would
have upbraided me for despising their love, but you are not like that.
And you will have your reward. Politics will never again separate me
from you, at any rate.” He kissed her gently on the forehead, and
wrapped her cloak round her. “You must go back, dear, or you will be
missed. A curious little interlude in the evening’s entertainment,
isn’t it? Well, your coming here has saved me, such as I am.”
Ernestine choked down her sobs as she clung to him. “You will live
because I want you,” she said. “Perhaps you can’t rule the world,
beloved, but you can make one woman very happy. You have done it
already, and she is grateful.”
She went out, and found Philippa waiting anxiously in the passage.
“It’s all right, Phil. We have saved him,” she said, holding the
girl’s hand tightly in hers as they passed down the steps and across
the courtyard.
“But what had happened to him?” asked Philippa breathlessly, when they
were in the carriage again.
“Something has given way in his brain. He will never be able to plan
again.”
“He can’t plan? Oh, poor Uncle Cyril!” cried Philippa, appalled.
“Phil, you must help me to keep it a secret--at any rate until after
we are married. I know they will part me from him if they can. Once I
am his wife I don’t care what happens. Only his real friends must know
of this terrible trouble, such as your father and the Chevalier
Goldberg. And we must keep Michael in a good temper. My child, you see
why he has come here? His manner in addressing you last night showed
that sufficiently. Is there any hope for him? You know how I should
rejoice to welcome you as a daughter.”
“I would do anything else in the world for you and Uncle Cyril,” burst
from Philippa, “but not that. I don’t love him in the least. I don’t
even--like him,” she was about to say, but changed it, feebly enough,
into--“care for him.”
“It is not your fault, Phil. I ought to be the first person to know
that love is not at one’s own command. But oh, dear child, if you
could abstain from refusing him until after the wedding is over! I
don’t mean that you should deceive him, of course, but if only you
could prevent his proposing to you----”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Philippa doubtfully, but she felt that if
King Michael had determined to propose to her, it was probable that he
would do so, in spite of any obstacles she might put in his way. That
this intuition of hers was a correct one she discovered as soon as she
re-entered the assembly-room with the Queen. Her father was standing
not far from the cloakroom door, and stepped forward to meet her.
“Why, Phil, I have been looking for you everywhere! I could not think
what had become of you until the Prince of Arragon told me that he had
left you with her Majesty.”
“Yes; I was seized with a sudden faintness, and Philippa was kind
enough to remain with me until I felt better,” said Ernestine
graciously, bestowing one of her rare smiles on Philippa as she turned
towards the Thracian consul, who was anxious to present a relative to
her.
“Phil,” said Lord Caerleon, taking his daughter aside, “the King has
been speaking to me about you.”
“Oh, father!” exclaimed Philippa, in dismay.
“I suppose I ought to feel honoured,” continued her father ruefully,
“but that youth riles me--there’s no other word for it. He asked to be
allowed to visit me to-morrow at the hotel, graciously intimating that
he considered me as in a sort of way a brother monarch, and therefore
felt able to dispense with strict etiquette. I guessed what he wanted,
and thought we might just as well settle matters without getting your
name mixed up with his, so I said I couldn’t think of giving him the
trouble. Thereupon he did you the honour to request me in so many
words to regard him as a suitor for your hand, this being merely
preliminary, as he explained, to a formal proposal through the proper
channels. I said I hadn’t had any conversation with you lately on such
subjects, but judging from the sentiments you expressed on the last
occasion, I couldn’t give him any hope. Upon that he informed me that
I wasn’t up to date. He is now a reformed character, father of his
country and so on, the condescending patron of everything that’s good.
I don’t want to laugh at any man’s reformation, Phil, but the fellow
takes himself too seriously. I told him I didn’t see that it was much
good bothering you about the matter, and he became very high and
mighty indeed. He reminded me that young ladies did not receive offers
of marriage from crowned heads every day, and intimated that such an
honour ought to be accepted in a proper spirit. In other words, he
warns you not to reject his offer without due consideration. I am
telling you about it because he insisted I should, and I thought he
might turn rusty and make some unpleasantness if I didn’t, but having
laid the proposal before you, I can now go with a good conscience and
tell him you refuse it.”
“Wait, father, please!” cried Philippa, in an uncertain voice. “I--I
think I will take time to consider.”
Her father turned and gazed at her. “Phil!” he said, with more sorrow
and disappointment in his voice than she had ever heard in it before.
“I think it’s only proper, as he says,” went on Philippa, with a laugh
that was a little hysterical. Don’t you, father? I--I should not like
to be too hasty.
“Phil, I wouldn’t insult you by imagining that you could be induced to
marry a man you didn’t love for the sake of a crown, but what in the
world are you driving at? You needn’t think anything of what I said
just now about the fellow’s making himself unpleasant to your uncle
and the Queen, for what harm could he do, after all?” Philippa
shuddered. Her father did not know what terrible harm King Michael
might do if he chose. “But at any rate, don’t give him a moral claim
upon you in this way. It’s quite unnecessary to be so tender of his
feelings.”
“Oh no, no moral claim,” said Philippa entreatingly. “You can tell him
you are perfectly certain that delay will make no change in my
feelings, but that if he wishes it, I will consent not to give him a
final answer until the day after the wedding. It’s--it’s due to his
position, father.” She laughed again. “I’m sure you can make him see
it in that light.”
“I can’t make you out, Phil,” said Lord Caerleon doubtfully, as he
left her. Presently he returned, pulling at his moustache in a way
that showed him to be still puzzled.
“Well, Phil, I have given him your message, and he accepts it as
merely his due. I can swear I’ve done my best to choke him off, but he
won’t have it. I think he understands that he’s not to come hanging
about the hotel, setting people talking, but he may do what he can,
without making you conspicuous, to prepossess you in his favour--in
conversation and so on. He seems very well satisfied, and I hope you
are. I wish with all my heart you were safely engaged to--er--some
other fellow.”
“Are you determining to turn me out of doors if I accept King Michael,
father? Don’t you think your way of receiving a king as a would-be
son-in-law is just a little--original?”
“Why, Phil?” cried her father in distress, catching sight at last of
the tears in her eyes.
“Oh, father, I’m so miserable--so frightened--I don’t know what to
do!” and Philippa laid her golden head on his shoulder, and sobbed
there comfortably, as if she had gone back ten years, and been a
little girl again.
“Do you want me to get rid of the fellow for you, Phil? I’ll do it
like a shot. King or no king, I won’t have him making you cry with his
silly nonsense.”
“No, no, it’s not that. Lend me your handkerchief, father dear. This
lace thing is no good. Don’t you think mother would come home now?”
“I’m sure she would. I’ll go and ask her,” and poor Lord Caerleon went
away thoroughly puzzled. Hitherto nothing had ever interrupted the
perfect understanding between Philippa and himself, but now he was
realising miserably that his little daughter had become a woman, and
Lord Caerleon had always confessed that he did not understand women.
“Mansfield,” said Usk abruptly, when he and his friend were leaving
the Consulate in company a little later, “that idiot is after Philippa
again.”
“What, that Thracian beast?” Mansfield’s language was far from choice,
but he was not without provocation. “Well, your father will soon kick
him out.”
“That’s what I thought, but there’s no chance of that now. She has
taken time to consider her answer, and we know what that means. I
thought I’d tell you myself, before--before you could hear it from any
one else.” Mansfield gasped, and Usk went on hurriedly, “I wouldn’t
have believed it, but the fellow told me himself. Perhaps it’s a lie.”
“No fear!” was the sternly hopeless answer. “What would be the good,
when a word with your father would put you right at once? She has been
over-persuaded.”
“Yes, I know how it is. He has got round her with the notion that it’s
her duty to sacrifice herself to him for the sake of his rotten
kingdom, like a girl in a book. I’m awfully sorry, Mansfield--sick,
too.”
Mansfield answered only by an inarticulate grunt.
“I wouldn’t have believed Phil was such an owl,” went on her brother.
“Every one knows that sort of arrangement is bound to end in an awful
smash. But never say die, old man; she may chuck him yet.”
“Not she,” returned Mansfield, with a fixed despair.